Betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It’s a close-range shot, fired by someone who knows just where your heart is—and pulls the trigger
anyway. —FRANK, A BARTENDER
CHAPTER 53
I don’t want to lie to Charlotte. I already lied about where I was the day I saw Edmund’s mother attack him, and doing it again feels like drilling secret holes in the walls of our friendship. But this is what I signed up for. Charlotte is only the first of many people I’ll have to deceive before Jerome’s job is over.
The problem is that she already knows someone sabotaged my civil credits. She heard me accuse Rosamund, so the lie has to carry a sliver of truth. I tell her someone tried to kill me with a Section Twenty-Seven, but I managed to stop it. I tell her I went to the campus Copper Headquarters, reported the attack, and that the Coppers shut it down.
“The Coppers said they have no way to track who did it,” I add. Then I ask about Edmund, even though I don’t truly believe he’s capable of trying to kill me. I need to hear how impossible it sounds when I say the words aloud.
The suggestion completely sets Charlotte off.
“No damn chance, Lore,” she snaps, pacing my salon like she’s trying to grind a hole through the marble. The scratches on her face from Rosamund’s monkey are sealed under rejuvenation cream, but the green wounds beneath are still visible. “Edmund’s a payback junkie, sure. He doesn’t forgive. But tanking your civil credits is too far, even for him. It’s like you said—he hated Charles, couldn’t even look at the jerk without wanting to swing. The only reason any of it blew up is because Charles was Irene’s old fiancé. But how does that make it your fault? I get that Edmund wants revenge, fine, but killing you? No. Fucking. Way.”
I nod and let her vent, comforted by how unthinkable it is to her. Yet the thought still needles at me: if she knew about what I saw that day on Edmund’s balcony—if she’d seen his mother’s nails dig so deep into his face that muscle showed through the blood—if she knew what he keeps buried beneath all that calm, would she still be so sure?
Charlotte sinks into a chair, her shoulders drooping, her chin tucked into her collar. She stares at the floor, and the thoughts crawling behind her eyes are like spiders.
“I wish you hadn’t done it, Lore,” she whispers, her mouth twisting around the words. “I gave in to Rosamund enough times to know that for her, winning is about humiliating you.”
“I’m not humiliated, Char,” I say. “Believe it or not, I’d do it again. I’d swallow worse if it meant you were safe.”
She lifts her head, her eyes glassy as they meet mine. “I don’t deserve you.”
I move in and crouch in front of her, close enough to see the tears she’s fighting to hold back. “I think the same about you. And maybe that’s why we work.”
Charlotte lets out a soft, watery laugh and reaches for me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders. I hold her firmly, so grateful to still have her that, for a moment, nothing Rosamund or Edmund did matters at all.
“Why don’t we do something together before the Mensur?” I say as I pull away. “Just the two of us.”
Charlotte’s face brightens, ready to agree, when a bell chimes through the suite. My Pinkie opens the door, and Jack and Dickie step inside. Dickie wears a burnt-orange suit, wide-eyed and fidgeting like a cornered fox, while Jack is in his Fraternity uniform, even though tonight’s Mensur is still hours away.
“What are you two doing here?” I ask, watching them warily. Do Jack and Dickie know Edmund tried to make me take Bliss? If so, did they agree with his revenge? It’s hard to believe, especially after how close I’ve gotten to Dickie, but trust isn’t something I can afford to give away easily anymore.
I’m about to confront them when Jack cuts in, his face stretched with worry. “We came to check on you. Charlotte wouldn’t pick up.”
The moment Charlotte hears Jack’s voice, her body stiffens. She turns away from us in her chair and stares out the window. Jack rubs his jaw and frowns, as if confused by why she won’t look at him.
“Char,” he says softly, stepping behind her. “What’s going on, darling?
Why’d you send Ed the drop request? Why do you want out?”
“What?” The word rips out of me before I can swallow it. She never told me she’s trying to leave Edmund’s entourage.
Charlotte stays perfectly still, as if she can wish Jack away if she holds her ground long enough. Then, finally, she turns, her eyes dull and flat with exhaustion. When Jack and Dickie spot the cuts on her face, both curse under their breath.
“Char.” Jack lifts a shaky hand toward her cheek. “What the hell happened?”
She pulls away, her voice eerily calm. “It doesn’t matter. And do you know why? Because I’m done, Jack. I don’t want to see you tomorrow. I don’t want to see you next month. I don’t want to see you when you’ve drunk yourself so stupid that you come crawling to my suite, thinking I still love you. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Dickie’s mouth drops open. I shake my head at Charlotte, advising her to wait until her anger cools, but she’s locked in a stare-down with Jack, who’s gone rigid with confusion.
“What are you talking about? What did I do?”
“It’s what you didn’t do. It’s what you’ve never done.” Charlotte lifts her chin, showing him the cut on her neck from Rosamund’s saber. “Do you know Rosamund threatened to kill me yesterday if Lore didn’t eat her monkey’s shit? And do you know that to save me, Lore did it?”
Dickie whirls on me, his mouth wide. “What the devil? Why?”
Jack staggers back a step, then another. Charlotte rises and stalks after him, relentless, as if blind to his horror, to the raw grooves of shock carved into his face.
“And what about my hair, Jack? Did you know Rosamund was the one who shaved it? Did you know she’s the reason I endured months of humiliation?”
Jack opens his mouth, his throat working, then chokes out, “What? How do you know—”
“Because she carved an R into my skin with her saber. Right on the back of my head.” Charlotte closes the distance, her hands trembling at her sides, every word shaking with fury. “Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”
Jack freezes mid-step. Gradually, color returns to his face, his shock giving way to a steely edge. He straightens up, jaw clenched. “Yeah, darling.
Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“I told you I hated Rosamund more times than I can count.”
“Yeah, but not that she attacked you. What the fuck, Charlotte?”
“Did I really have to spell it out for you? It was all there, Jack. It always was. The only way you couldn’t have seen it was if you were trying not to.”
“I wasn’t trying not to see it. I was more drunk than sober, Charlotte. I was so shit-faced I was seeing double.”
“Then you should’ve seen it twice as clearly.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jack drags a hand down his face. “You really expect me to read your mind? To see injuries you went out of your way to hide and know who gave them to you? Is that really what you’re saying?”
Charlotte falters. “No, but…”
“But what?” Jack’s voice rises, gruff with frustration. “You should’ve told me.”
Charlotte’s throat bobs, as if she knows he’s right. Still, her voice climbs to meet his. “You knew I was sad, Jack. You knew I was hurting. And if you really loved me, you would’ve seen it. You would’ve been there for me.”
He flinches, hurt breaking through his expression. “Really, Charlotte?
You think I didn’t love you?”
She hesitates, wavering, then snaps back, loudly enough to make Dickie jerk upright. “Yes. If you loved me, you would’ve seen it. But you didn’t because you were too busy picking everyone else over me. You ruined it, Jack. Not Rosamund. Not me. You.”
That does it. It rips the old wound wide open. Jack’s eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice drops to a low, resentful growl.
“Pick you?” He laughs, hollow. “All right. Let’s pick. Let’s pick the Royce Club. You told me you loved me—right there, drunk off my neck— and then you turned around and tried to crawl into Ed’s bed the same night.
My best friend. And then you ran away when it all blew up. Didn’t say a word. Not until you came sniffing around on that train, crying for help like none of it ever happened.”
The floor tilts beneath me. I’m so stunned I barely register Dickie’s gasp or Charlotte going limp.
Jack’s chest heaves, his face appearing bloodless, but his eyes burn as if his resentment is finally clawing its way out. “So yeah. Maybe I was nice to Rosamund, but only because I didn’t know how she was treating you. Unlike you, darling, I don’t run. And you don’t get to spit my loyalty back at me
when you killed it first.”
He looks at Charlotte a moment longer, with no rage left, only the wound laid bare between them, too deep and ugly for either to pretend anymore. In that stare, all Charlotte’s fire dies. The fight drains from her body, leaving nothing but a husk, even emptier than she was on Harrison’s jet.
Jack’s shoulders fold inward, as if the fight has drained from him, too.
Whatever they were is gone now, and I think it cuts him deeper than her betrayal ever did.
When he turns to me and places a hand on my arm, his fingers tremor.
“Sorry, Loredana. This wasn’t the place. Or the time.”
He heads for the door, scrubbing his palm across his neck as if he’s trying to sand off the last of this from his skin.
Dickie stays frozen, his eyes wet and wide in a way that makes my throat tighten. Like me, he didn’t know what had happened between Edmund, Jack, and Charlotte until now. The way he’s staring at Charlotte, as if seeing her for the first time, makes her shrink where she stands, as if one more word would be enough to blow her away.
Slowly, Dickie’s finger lifts, shaking so much he can barely point. “So, Ed was right about you, then. You’re really not a lady.”
He spins on his heel and chases after Jack. The door rattles in its frame as it slams, loud enough to make me flinch.
I turn to Charlotte, and she raises a hand in front of her face, the same shield she uses when she won’t let me see the worst of her. Her shoulders hitch as she stumbles past me, as if I’m just another piece of furniture in the salon, then she disappears into my bedroom.
And I stand alone in the wreckage, the echoes still ringing off the walls.
With so many thoughts racing through my mind, I can’t stay still. I pace up and down the salon, each pass faster, my pulse pounding so loudly it drowns out the clock. I know Charlotte mentioned she was looking for a way out of her relationship with Jack, but why did she use Edmund as an exit? Didn’t she realize how much coming onto Edmund would hurt Jack? Didn’t she understand she’d make an enemy of Edmund forever? There must be something I’m missing. There has to be, because it’s Charlotte. And she
always has a reason.
I stop pacing long enough to sink onto the sofa, then shoot back up when my muscles constrict as if in revolt. I turn toward the bedroom door, tempted to force my way in and see if Charlotte’s okay. But my feet stay rooted.
She’ll come out when she’s ready.
An hour later, when she finally emerges, her movements are so quiet I hardly hear the latch click. Her cheeks are blotchy, with dark hollows under her eyes that make her look older than me for once. She stops short when she
sees me.
“Lore. You’re still here?”
“Of course, Char. I’m not going to leave you.”
She sniffs, then points to the table. We both sit. Charlotte pulls her mom’s emerald-studded lighter from her pocket, gripping it as if to ground herself, and gives me that look. Go ahead. Ask.
“Why, Char?” I ask gently. “Why Edmund?”
Charlotte sighs and wipes her nose with her knuckle. “Because I needed a way out. And it had to be permanent. I knew that if I just left, I’d go back to Jack the moment I got lonely. I loved Jack too much for that. I couldn’t trust myself, so I did the one thing that would make it impossible for me to return.”
“So, you planned to make a pass at Edmund?”
She shakes her head. “No. I didn’t plan any of it. I only knew I had to end things with Jack. That night at the Royce Club, I’d taken Bliss. People think it just makes you happy, but it doesn’t. It turns up the ugly parts of yourself.
Every petty thought, every jealous piece of me, got loud. Jack getting the hovercar from Rosamund, and seeing him so happy about it, made me snap.”
She exhales, a dry, brittle sound. “Edmund never told Rosamund or Dickie what happened. I think the only reason he told Jack was because he had to.”
I nod. Edmund probably kept the secret for Jack’s sake.
“The idea came because I couldn’t stand that Jack looked at Rosamund like she hung the moon, while my stupid little gift—” Charlotte exhales once more, and the sound is coarse, like something dead rattling in her chest. “I waited until Edmund went to his room, then I went after him. He didn’t know why at first. He just smiled, like I was his sister asking a favor. I wasn’t trying to have sex with him, like Jack claimed, but I guess that’s what it looked like. I just kissed him. I reached up as high as I could and pressed my mouth to his because the Bliss made my mind shout: do it, he’s right there,
end it all in one blow. Edmund pulled away so fucking fast. He looked at me like I’d gutted him. Then his shock flipped to rage. Real rage, Lore. The kind I’ve never even seen in Rosamund.”
Charlotte tightens her grip on her mom’s lighter, forcing the next words out through gritted teeth. “I knew I’d made the worst mistake the second I saw that look. Even drugged, I knew. And Edmund’s anger—shit, Lore, it scared me. I thought he might… I don’t know. So I ran. Right out of the Royce Club. I didn’t wait for Jack to find me. I didn’t answer his calls. I left it all to rot.”
Her eyes lift to mine, broken yet resigned, as if there’s nothing left to defend.
“I ruined Jack and myself. If I could take one thing back, it wouldn’t be that we broke up, but how we broke up. How much I… hurt him.”
She leans back in her chair, staring past me at the far wall as if she’s ready to shove the truth into a box and lock it away forever. But I wonder if that will work. For the first time, I see how deep the wound runs and how it will probably never close, no matter how far she runs.
My voice barely makes it past my teeth. “What happened after?”
Charlotte drags the back of her wrist across her eyes, though there’s hardly any tears left to dry. “I made another mistake. I ran straight to my dad and told him everything. He lost his shit and cut me off that same night— funds, support, everything. He said he’d be damned if my mess stained his standing with the Blues.” A weak huff escapes her, more sad than bitter. “I wanted to call you. I didn’t want to be alone. But I couldn’t choke out the words about what I’d done.”
I can almost picture her dad’s face when she told him. He’s always groveling for the Blues’ favor, especially when he thinks it’ll win him an extra square foot of power. But kicking Charlotte out onto the street feels unreal, even for him.
Charlotte tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “Dickie called me every day for weeks. He didn’t know why I left and kept begging me to pick up, over and over. And when I finally did, he told me—” Her voice snaps.
“Told you what?” I ask softly.
Her shoulders curl inward as if she’s trying to fold herself around the memory to make it smaller. “Dickie said Jack was going to propose. He already had the ring. He’d planned where and when. He was going to ask me that weekend, the same weekend I threw it all into the fire.”
Her eyes flutter, then go still. “And the worst part… the worst part is selfish, Lore. So selfish it makes me sick. What eats at me most is seeing the life I could’ve had and knowing it’s gone for good. I’m done with Jack. Truly done. But the wound will never close. Even if I marry someone else. Even if I’m happy. I’ll carry it forever.”
I lay my hand over hers and feel how cold her fingers have grown. “Is that why you’re leaving Edmund’s entourage? Because you think Jack and Edmund won’t forgive you?”
She nods, flipping her lighter open and shut. “I think Jack forgave me a long time ago. I think he still loves me—some stubborn part of him, anyway.
But we both know that doesn’t mean anything now. He can’t look at me without remembering what I did.”
She rubs her palms together as if trying to warm old blood. “And Edmund…” She lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
“Edmund is different. He’s a Blue. He’ll never touch disgrace with his bare hands. Not for me, not for anyone. I didn’t understand how deep that runs in him until I kissed him. He was good to me, Lore—gentle, polite—but there was always a line. The only time he ever laid a hand on me was when I tripped on a tennis court, and Jack was too slow to get there first. Edmund pulled me up like I was a glass vase he hated to break. And that kiss—the look on his face. I think it would’ve been more forgivable if I’d stabbed him instead.”
A tremor runs up my spine. I think of every time Edmund’s hands drifted across my skin, the way he pulled me to him by the waist, the way his mouth claimed mine, deeper each time, surer, as if I were as Blue as he is. The memories are jarring because they don’t match Charlotte’s version of Edmund at all.
Charlotte’s eyes are dry now, but they’re downcast and cloudy-looking.
“I’m sorry, Lore. I know I disappointed you, too.”
I shake my head before she finishes. She didn’t betray me at the Royce Club. Forgiveness isn’t mine to give. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and hold her close. “You’re my best friend, Char. I love you no matter what.”
A single sob escapes her, and she melts against my neck. I hold her for a moment, brushing her curls as I try to make sense of everything she told me.
There’s so much I didn’t understand over the past year about the tension between Charlotte, Jack, and Edmund. Now that I do, I find it hard to pin the blame entirely on anyone. In a way, I understand everyone’s point of view.
“Did Edmund accept your request to leave his entourage?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What will you do now?”
Charlotte pulls back and sniffles. “I don’t know. The only thing I know is that I’ve waited too long to be protected, Lore. No one’s coming to save me. I accept that now.” Her voice steadies. “It’s time for me to save myself. And if everything goes to hell anyway, I’ll find a way to take the spider down with me.”
“It’s not going to come to that,” I say. I hate the defeat in her voice, the way she speaks as if the ending were already written. I smile, trying to look encouraging. “You still have me, Char. And I’m not going any—”
“Miss Waldsten,” my Pinkie interrupts.
I turn to see the robot standing in the salon’s doorway, hands folded around a small box. “You have received a package.”
I stagger out of my chair, my feet moving before my mind does. I knew the package was coming—I’d arranged overnight delivery from home—but knowing and feeling are different.
“Oh, Lore…” Charlotte breathes as the Pinkie lifts the lid and offers me the box.
I draw a ragged breath, my hand trembling as it hovers over the saber hilt inside. It’s gold, etched with a C to mark my fencing level, and the grip is worn smooth where my palm once claimed it. The blade lies dormant, retracted, waiting for permission to awaken.
For a long, dizzying moment, I hesitate, swallowed by memory. This isn’t how getting my saber back was meant to be; I was supposed to be at home with my family, wearing Coquette. But when my fingers close around the hilt and it seems to recognize me, fitting into the hollow of my palm as if it never left, all hesitation falls away. The trembling in my hand stops, as do the thoughts about how the moment should’ve been. None of it matters because, for the first time since Charles Blackwell attacked me, I’m no longer pressed against the window, watching the world pass me by. The door is open, and
I’ve stepped inside.
At last, I’m home.
